


Home is Not a Place

by notjustmom



Series: Tumblr fics 2018-19 [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 15:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19815352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: A gift fic for daisyfairy, the prompt was Johnlock, Far From Home...





	Home is Not a Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaisyFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/gifts).



Home.

It had taken him nearly forty years before he finally found it, and as the poets are wont to say at times, home for him wasn’t a house, a neighborhood, or even a country. Home for him resided in one person. His home was the man who jogged alongside the train until he ran out of platform and had to stop. He kept his fingers pressed to the glass long after Sherlock had disappeared from view.

It was Sherlock who had convinced him to finally meet with the publisher who kept begging for a meeting. Sherlock, who had always complained how romanticized the stories were, how little the blog posts had to do with his work, and yet he had been the one to arrange the interview, the one who drove him to the train station, and made sure he got on the train back to London.

He stared out the window and watched the colours blur together, and wished he were back at their little cottage. He glanced down at his watch. Only seven. Usually, at this time - well, it depended on the weather. If it happened to be raining or snowing, they might build a fire and spend the day sitting across from each other, Sherlock would stretch out his ridiculously long legs, and rest his feet in John’s lap, and might read him a bit of poetry, or like last night, a bit of Dickens. Somehow he had known like he always did, always had, from the very beginning, that change made him nervous, even change that could be of benefit to both of them. Sherlock understood he needed to be eased into it, so he read for hours until John’s eyes finally fluttered closed, then without a word, moved him into their bed, and folded around him, cocoonlike, so in the morning, when he woke, he might be transformed.

Then again, perhaps that was just his romantic side taking over again, attaching too much meaning to Sherlock’s actions. But as John patted his pocket for tea money, he heard a crinkle of paper that he knew hadn’t been there the night before, and pulled it out.

You are so much stronger than I am, you always were, always will be. Some small part of you wants to be on the train, wants to breathe in the scents of our old stomping grounds, and wants to charm some spotty kid with a degree to buy your book, over a posh and expensive lunch, otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the train. 

I’ll be home waiting with the kettle on.

Love, S.

He snorted, and carefully folded and placed the note into his wallet, then leaned against the window and in spite of the eight hours of sleep he’d had the night before, he dozed off, sleeping until a voice announced their imminent arrival in London.

He pulled out his phone and blinked at the missed texts.

Miss you.

Gladstone misses you too.

Bring home some of those biscuits if you remember.

Let me know when you get there.

Love you.

He shook his head, but couldn’t help but smile as he found an empty bench and responded to each message:

Miss you too.

I’m sure he’s asleep by the fire, snorting away.

Of course.

I’m here, wish I were there.

Love you, too.

He watched as the train heading back to Sussex was boarding, and gave a brief thought to abandoning his mission, when his phone vibrated in his hand.

Do this for you, John. For once I am the one at home waiting for you to return, and it is only a matter of hours, and though I know you are but a train ride away, you may as well be on the moon. I never understood how you did it.

John felt the old unshed tears well up, and was about to turn off his phone when one more text popped up.

Sorry. I’ve just become accustomed to your constant presence about the place these last ten years. I’ve put on the telly just for noise, a distraction. You aren’t a distraction. I know it may sound self-centered, but for the longest time you’ve felt an extension of myself, I don’t know if you feel that way or not. Even taking a breath where you are not -

He pinched his nose and cleared his voice, then waited for the phone in his hand to vibrate again.

“Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“John.”

“You know, I feel the same way, always have. I’ll be home soon.”

“With biscuits?”

“With biscuits, I won’t forget.”

“John.”

“Yeah, me too. Rest if you can, I know you didn’t sleep last night.”

“I love you.”

John glanced up at the clock in the station and cleared his throat again. “Love you. Gotta go.” He ended the call and pocketed his phone, then picked up his stick and slowly got to his feet to join the throng of humanity who all seemed to be hailing a cab at the same time.

London was much the same as it always had been, noisy and sparkling, and yet it wasn’t the same without him. It was his city, his world - at least it had been once. Now, he couldn’t imagine him in it, he seemed to have lost his love for it, and the work with the ending of their last case. He shook his head to clear the memory as the cabbie pulled up at the address he had been given, a newly built, dazzling monument to the power of the written word, in glass and steel, and more than anything, he needed to be back in Sussex. 

“D’ya mind -?”

“Back to the station?” The cabbie asked as he caught his eye in the mirror. “Thought you looked a bit lost.”

John nodded as he pulled out his phone.

Catching the next train.

I’ll meet you at the station.


End file.
